Tuesday, May 30, 1967, 1718 Central European Time, Frankfurt, Hesse, Federal Republic of Germany

There had been somewhat of a change of plan. Namely via Adeline Khoury, who had come down with food poisoning, precise cause unknown.

This meant that Micheal Reagan was assigned to take her place in the truck and with unconfirmed reports of an increased police presence in Ostrava, it was decided that they needed to get someone in country as soon as possible; Wednesday afternoon if possible. The train service wouldn't get them there until the early hours of Thursday, what with the change in Prague.

Thus Reagan found himself at a customs broker near Frankfurt Airport as the dark red Bedford TK truck they were going to use was having its covered trailer loaded with a large quantity of German beer being exported to Czechoslovakia for their hard currency stores.

Diana Langdon was standing next to him, smoking a cigarette.

"They've fitted a covert radio under the suspension. Morse code and voice. Problem is that it takes five minutes to set the thing up..."
This message was last edited by the player at 11:44, Tue 19 Mar 2019.

Mícheál would have preferred it if they were transporting hard liquor instead of beer, if only because he could have weaponised the former. As it was he was eyeing up the truck, considering what he might be able to make use of. He'd foregone his usual suits for a jeans and checkered work shirt that he'd spent an hour deliberately wearing down to look long owned.

The mission was going to call for discretion. Not as much fun as blowing things to kingdom come but it did come with the benefit of less return fire. Finding himself dying for a fag, he plucked one from his own pack and lit up. He nodded understandingly. Five minutes was an eternity in some situations.

"Hope to God we don't need to use it. I'm hoping to get them out quick and quiet, no one noticing they're gone til we're in another country." All he could hope was that the notion of a pair of Irish delivering a truckful of beer wouldn't rouse any suspicions.

Langdon nodded and reached into her pocket for a road atlas, which she placed on the table, her finger tracing a route to the border with Czechoslovakia.

"We've got a long drive ahead of us", she said, "My guess is around 9 hours, not including however long it takes us to get through the border at Rozvadov. At some point, I may end up having to sleep because I'm too tired to drive. How's your lorry experience?"

She paused.

"I don't have a current Czech map on me. I'll have to pick one up when we find a gas station on the other side of the frontier. You know what we're trying to go to the Moon? Perhaps NASA could develop a system that would tell you where you were... and give you directions."

"More than enough to manage with. Driven them a few times." Admittedly once had been entirely in reverse, through a crowded warehouse while focusing more on his shooting than his driving. That wasn't the sort of thing that built confidence in others, though, so he kept it to himself.

"The Moon, yeah, I heard. Bet the view would be lovely from up there." One might even be able to imagine that the world was as peaceful and serene as it might look from far away. He wasn't too worried about the lack of a map. A person could get a lot of valuable local intelligence when asking for directions. "They made a thing like that, you know for sure J. Edgar would be watching each and every little move you made."

"If he was watching each and every move I made, he'd probably end up very bored, very soon."

The Turkish workmen in front of them seemed to have finished the job, at which point one of them came over to Diana.

[Language unknown: Reaingdin ee iouncehis. Aststaure k ssnori?]

Diana nodded and walked over to inspect the vehicle, doing up the cords of the tarpaulin. Then she disappeared into the office to fill out some paperwork.

Fifteen minutes later, she returned, holding a folder filled with paperwork.

"Right", she said, "Let's get this show on the road."

"From what I've heard, he'd be snooping for fashion tips." He took it as dictum that the more strait-laced and conservative a public figure appeared to be, the more depraved and decadent they were. He'd heard enough stories about the very top of the FBI pyramid to believe them.

Tapping a finger to his temple, he pointed on down the road. "Let's get going, then. The road won't get any shorter while we're sitting here." If Diana was a Soviet plant then she had already incriminated herself by mentioning the radio, nothing that would have been of any use had she proven to be a plant. He didn't have any armaments on him, if things went bad he had three very sharp pencils in his top pocket and a knife in his jeans.

"Indeed", Diana said, climbing up to the driver's cab of the truck. As this was a British truck, the driver's cab was on the right hand side of the vehicle, which was a slight issue when driving on the Continent.

The interior was a single driver's seat and a bench seat that could sit two people. There were no seatbelts, which was rather concerning to some people.

Behind the seats, a large green sleeping bag sat, along with a vacuum flash and a heavy looking torch, along with a batch of road maps.

Diana got into her seat, pulled out her key and stuck it into the ignition. Turning it, the engine revved a couple of times before bursting into noisy life.

"90,000 miles on the clock for this thing", she said, "I took it all the way to Iran last year."

He wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if someone had rolled the clock back on the lorry, but she definitely looked like she'd done her 90,000. "Drive her til the wheels fall off, my dad used to say. I think he was talking about motor vehicles." He watched her closely as she got going, having a knack for unobtrusive observations. An old hand at driving, he knew that any vehicle that stood the test of time would have plenty of idiosyncracies known only to a familiar driver. How good the brakes were, whether the tracking pulled to the left or right, those and a whole host of other little things were worth taking heed of.

Diana got the vehicle into gear, released the handbrake and then slowly worked her way out of the facility. After a brief stop to show some papers to the security guard at the exit and for him to lift the barrier, they were out onto the road.

Shortly after that, Diana took the truck onto the Autobahn and put the pedal down to the floor.

"I can get this to around 50 tops. Can't really go any faster than that, unless we're on a steep hill downwards. So this might take a bit longer than I anticipated. Mind if I turn the radio on?"

"I once had to get out of the Balkans in a steam-powered lorry. As long as she goes faster than a mule she'll do for what we need." He preferred speed, of course, but knew that mass had its advantages. He figured the old girl would plough right through a roadblock with a bit of a run-up. "Work away." He waved towards the radio, eyes on the road. He watched through the windows and in the mirrors, looking for anything that caught his eye.

Diana turned on the radio and after a slight twiddle, found the frequency for Radio Luxembourg.

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T!" came the voice of Aretha Franklin over the speaker and Diana looked slightly at the radio.

"Not really a fan of soul music..."

Out of the window, Reagan could see a truck with a Czechoslovak licence plate ahead of them.

"No? I'm fond of it myself. It's a catchy tune." He eyed the cars ahead. Paranoia was an excessive state of alertness, it didn't affect him. There was no such thing as a spy who was too wary. On the upside, if things were to go south it was better to happen sooner rather than later.

17:18, Today: Micheal Reagan rolled 5 using 1d12.  Perception.

Micheal noticed that the lorry in front of him had five aerials. This was rather a lot for any vehicle, especially what was supposedly a commercial truck.

Ah, what a man might give for a grenade launcher at certain points in his life. His face didn't betray his consternation. "Bet you all the beer in Bavaria that they're not up to anything good." A slight tip of his head indicated the vehicle ahead. "How many men you reckon it'd hold?"

Diana looked and laughed.

"Tatra 111. Probably holds a good many soldiers, but that's probably for electronic surveillance of our airbases. He's probably got someone in the back operating the equipment, but they'll conceal all that gear before they head back across the border into Czechoslovakia."

She lowered the window, leaned out and flipped the bird at him.

"You know, we're not allowed to sleep by the side of the road in commie land?"

Electronics were a right bastard, no two ways about it. Soldiers weren't that hard to kill but even he knew that radio waves were a much trickier enemy. On the upside, if he fancied fighting anyone, driving with an American was sure to produce the desired results.

"No hairpins either. It's not in the plan." Communism just wasn't going to win. He knew that. Class warfare was just another line of bollocks. Problem was, all the alternatives were of the same calibre. Besides, no one wanted the Yanks knowing that the Irish were socialists. "If they're keeping their heads down, they won't see us."

"I don't think we particularly stand out at the moment..."

Wednesday, May 31, 1967, 0418 Central European Time, Waidhaus, Bavaria, Federal Republic of Germany

The Czechoslovak truck stayed with them for a good hour, not doing anything more than just driving, until Diana pulled over to visit the little trucker's room.

The drive had taken longer than planned due to a road accident outside Nuremberg; the badly damaged vehicles they'd seen probably indicated at least one fatality.

At two in the morning, Diana had gotten too tired to continue and was now in the passenger seat, snoring in a rather cute manner.

The sun was just starting to rise as Reagan saw the black and yellow sign saying "Waidhaus" on the road. Passing through the Bavarian border town, still mostly quiet at this time of day, he then passed a sign saying:


There were trees to one side and ahead of them a small queue was forming.

He was happy to be driving, it gave him something to focus on while he was surveying the scenery. It was important to him to take in as much as the landscape as he could with the view afforded from the cab. Landmarks, roadsigns. Things to remember for the near future. Never hurt to have a mental map of the land.

Joining the queue, he decided against waking Diana. It looked far less suspicious, he surmised, to have someone so relaxed that they'd dozed off while waiting. Nothing said something to hide like being bright eyed and bushy tailed after a long drive.

The queue ahead of them wasn't moving very quickly. In fact, it wasn't moving at all...

Ahead of him, he could see a man with a torch walking up to each of the vehicles and speaking with them in turn.

20:49, Today: Micheal Reagan rolled 2 using 1d12.  Perception.

The man walking down the line of vehicles was a West German border guard, dressed in his green uniform with a pistol in a holster under his belt.

He seemed to be having a friendly conservation with each of the vehicles in turn.

Eventually, he reached the Bedford truck... and briefly forgot he was dealing with a right-hand drive vehicle. He shone his torch right into Diana's face.

She woke up with a start, her hand moving to shade her eyes and another reaching for the glove compartment to get some form of weapon...

In Micheál's mind there were a series of simulations, running several scenarios through his mind in a matter of moments. There was no sign of tension in his voice as he spoke to Diana. "It's alright, sweetheart." His hand went out to her wrist. Though his face was kind, his voice soft, his grip was hard enough to cause real pain.

He looked past her to the guard. "Sorry. She's American." He offered a smile, nodding as though that was explanation enough.

Diana glared at him.

"Let the f*** go", she snarled as the officer came up to the side of the truck, crossing over so he would be on the driver's side.

He raised the torch a level just below the driver's window, so the light wasn't in Micheal's face.

"Sorry about the delay", he said in a strong Bavarian accent, "There has been some shooting on the other side of the border and the crossing on their side is closed. Possibly while they clean up the mess.

You may be here a while, but if you come with me, I can do your papers now."

Micheál's face dropped, shaking his head dolefully. "Oh, God. Is anyone dead?" He did a remarkable job of sounding like a normal person would on hearing such news, as though he weren't a man who had taken enough lives to fill a good-sized churchyard twice over.

He passed over his papers, ignoring Diana's sullen manners. Her own fault for not knowing how to handle a surprise. Given that he'd had to sort out paperwork for her due to a previous indiscretion, he wasn't too surprised. He just hoped she was actually good for something besides driving.

The border guard shrugged.

"Don't know. It was dark and we didn't see too much. They parked one of their personnel carriers in front of the scene pretty quickly, so I assume the worst."

Diana passed her own papers over to Micheal and the two of them got out of the vehicle, after Micheal had turned the ignition off and removed the key.

"Where are you headed?" the border guard asked.

"Ostrava", Diana replied, still rather sleepy, "Got any decent coffee? I think we're going to need it dealing with the Czechs. You know what they're like."

The guard turned to Michael.

"Never seen you round here before. You new at the business?"

Micheál shook his head at the question. "No sir. I've driven all over Britain, Australia and Africa. First time I've ever driven on the Continent, though." He gave a slight shrug. "Money wasn't too bad and there's no sense turning down work. Got a baby on the way, might as well put it away while I can still travel a bit." He sighed, tipping his head to the side. "Lovely country you have here, though. My mother had her heart up in her neck, you'd think it was still '44 to hear her. We called it the Emergency back home."

He peered ahead, nodding, and gave the guard a nervous glance. "It's safe enough, isn't it? Is anyone likely to take a shot at us?"

In reply to Micheal Reagan (msg # 27):

"You? Definitely not. Unless you're doing something stupid. Like trying to smuggle people out. It is - what do the English say - a mug's game."

He lead the two of them to a white building with a sloping roof next to the two border boom barriers. A West German flag was flying next to it.

"I suppose you know the way from here, Fraulein Langdon".

"Yes, thanks", Langdon said and led Micheal through the door to the customs office.

****
The office was very much like a bank... or a hospital waiting room. You took a number and then sat down on the benches opposite the glass shielded counters until your number was called. There was one counter open where a blue jacketed customers officer was talking with a shaven headed truck driver of Southern European appearance. Three other men were sitting on the bench.

"Take a number", Diana Langdon, "I got to visit the bathroom."

He shook his head, frowning. "I'm Irish. It's a mug's game trusting them bastards." He was offended, though he didn't mind accentuating it for show. His opinion of his companion had degraded, he had genuine concerns as to her abilities.

Plucking a number from the machine, he sat down and smiled at the others. "How's it going?"

One of the drivers shrugged.

"No English", he said and reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, offering one to Micheal, "Smoke?"

"Not English meself." He flashed a smile and took the cigarette gratefully, nodding his head in the universal sign of appreciation. He was quite the tobacco snob, he loved his Turkish blend for a nice hand-rolled but there was a marvelous lingua franca where booze and tobacco were concerned. He plucked the flask from his inside pocket, took a pull and offered it across in reciprocation. "Deutsche?"

The driver shook his head.

"No, Türk", came the reply, "Do not drink when on road. Very bad. Polis not like."

At that point, the door to the toilet opened and Diana came out, then started talking to the driver.

[Language unknown: Ichoec! Oulivelin k dinof ughst nomois! Oreiv omean rutionson ichsonstr ch all ntnd? Es a sselaiec iv liaini?]

The man replied in a very animated style.

[Language unknown: Hi, iv ngro isware es thuithrom. Tr o llha fiurei ne vor.]

She turned to Micheal.

[Language unknown: A masase inges ar day al li ai. Tioeauati haonla ac nc onal ersainast oneun enllnoin eirothme werateant toone ll caul Sauten tin. Areeenhat u terncente ilfipo ecet omnddi witsanwhe. Mooul and cahe om ssng p ee ul atitet? K anyof i ti a theovehat comnotven toon'ouho. T intev u ard miulos tinof ave, Riofac ivel ast airi e ineyinwil.]

Not for the first time did he consider the notion tha Diana was more liability than asset. He was not an evil man, he was a far worse thing, a pragmatic one. Sadists were predictable, wretched creatures, driven by their urges. He stuck strictly to what was most advantageous.

Not knowing more than a few words of Turkish, he did as was requested, returning with the drinks after a moment. He fished out his cigarette case, offering it to both.